Someone could have hired those gang-bangers.
You could call it paranoia or self-fulfilling prophecy. Or maybe he’d made himself a target by driving so slowly.
He decided not to tell Keiko. She’d just agree with the crickets.
The Tamura house was a modest stucco bungalow on a cul-de-sac. At this hour, it was the only place on the street with a light on. There were crickets here, too. And tree frogs.
The interior was a mixture of Japanese and modernist American décor. Eli and Keiko sat on a low divan facing a Bonsai tree perched on a bent-plywood Eames coffee table. Keiko’s packed overnight bag was at her feet. Eli had no desire to stay, but she explained that her grandmother insisted on serving them tea.
Eli was nervous. “We should have met somewhere. What if I was followed? And how ca
